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Eddie Huang at his restaurant Baohaus in New York. AP Photo/Seth Wenig

The New York Times described Eddie Huang’s new memoir, “Fresh Off the Boat,” as a “surprisingly sophisticated memoir about race and assimilation in America … a book about fitting in by not fitting in at all.”

The cover.

For those unaware, Huang is a 30-year-old New York chef and restaurateur, but it’s his outspoken, funny and thoughtful persona that’s garnered him fame, thanks to his blog, his Twitter feed and so on. And now he has a book about his life, from childhood in Orlando with his immigrant family to his short career as a lawyer, complete with bountiful hip hop and sports references.

“Fresh Off the Boat” is available at book stores as of last week. Here is an excerpt from the book, used with permission. It’s the part when Huang worked as a teenager in his father’s restaurant.

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I didn’t respect Chef Henry and he didn’t like me. Mainly because I was the owner’s son, but also because I didn’t respect his food. There were a lot of goofy fusion things that he made and all his recipes were over- cooked.* Warren worked with me and Chef loved him. I would always choose the tasks on the prep list requiring more skill and Warren would gladly take on the dirty ones. He took pride in doing the more physically demanding tasks, but I’d rather butterfly shrimp or clean the New York strip because I wanted to learn. Additionally, I liked working on the proteins so that I could make sure we weren’t wasting my dad’s money. Dad would cut the New York strip himself a lot of the time, but when he wasn’t there I’d watch it for him. Since that day eating soup dumplings on my sixth birthday, everyone knew I understood flavors and if someone showed me something once, I wouldn’t forget it. Chef could see it, but he resented me. He’d rather have someone like Warren who worked hard and followed instructions.

I learned a lot from him, though. That guy taught me how to make sauces on the sauté station, bread proteins, clean meats. All my technique prior to working there came from my mom and it was straight Chinese. We’d use a lot of bone stocks, cornstarch, scallions, ginger, dried chilis, and aged Chinese rice wine. The biggest surprise to me in an American kitchen was the use of butter. It was everywhere! Regular butter, infused butter, heavy cream, all things that you’d never see in an Asian kitchen unless you cooked Southeast Asian, but even then it was coconut milk.

I also kept my shifts at Cattleman’s, where I worked as the expediter. I loved expediting because you could control the whole operation and identify weaknesses. I expedited almost every Friday and Saturday night at Cattleman’s where we did $10K on average nights and up to $15K on big ones. The expediter stands on the side of the pass opposite the line, which is where the food is cooked using a grill, sauté, fryer, or whatever. The tickets come in, you put them on the speed rail, and as the food comes out, the expediter finishes the dishes with garnish, wipes the plates clean, and organizes the tickets. In a lot of ways, the expediter is the catcher calling the game. You tell the kitchen what to fire, what to hold, what to refire. The waiters and managers need to tell you what’s going on in the dining room, who’s in the weeds, which tables are causing problems. If you have a table that doesn’t have patience, you bump their ticket up in line, turn and burn ’em. If there’s a table that’s cool, drinking wine, having appetizers, you slow their meal, give a little extra, send a dessert. You want them to come back. My dad put me there to keep an eye on quality as well. If something came out that was inconsistent, I’d send it back.

When I started, I was a slow expediter because I kept burning myself. Most expediters were in their mid to late twenties and had been working in restaurants their whole lives. They had reptilian skin. Nothing could burn them. I sucked until I started wearing two gloves at a time. Such an easy fix and it made all the difference. There were people who were faster than me, but they made mistakes and didn’t pay as much attention to food cost or customer service. They just wanted to do their job, get the food out, and finish the tickets. Since my dad owned the place, I tried to stay aware of all the other factors and started to see how difficult it was to be the owner. Every single person in the restaurant needs to do things exactly how you teach them or you lose money. Additionally, they need to think like you and more than that, they need to care like you. It was an important lesson. I saw how managers would give people manuals, train them, and write them up, but it was empty. If you really wanted good employees that would have your interests at heart, they needed to buy in. You needed people who wanted to grow with your business and see themselves as valuable members on the team. My dad was the master at that.

He knew where everyone was from, their background, their struggles, their boyfriend or girlfriend, their hobbies. He took a real interest in people’s lives at the restaurant and even made the down payment for one of his manager’s homes.** No one called him boss or Mr. Huang. He wanted them to call him Louis, but they respected him so much they insisted on Mr. Louis. There were numerous people at the restaurant that had been at Cattleman’s over ten years and two employees literally worked there until they died. I still go home now and see the same bartenders and servers I grew up with. If they don’t work there, they still drink there.

On the other hand, my mom was the guard dog. Every day my mom would hunt down the parts of the operation where people were losing money or did their jobs wrong. These people were stealing right from under us and if they weren’t stealing, their laziness was costing us money. Fines from the health department, giving the wrong portions, ordering the incorrect amount of meat or produce—things fall apart every day at a restaurant, but as a manager, the key is to understand and accept the human element. No one is perfect and if they were, they wouldn’t be working for you.

* Overcooked doesn’t mean it’s actually overcooked in terms of temperature. It’s overcooked in the concept. Like things Dwight Howard wears with epaulettes and zippers all over the place. That’s overcooked.

** R.I.P. Bill. His manager, Bill, was a great guy who really helped my dad in the early years. Pops paid the down payment on his house and Bill was doing great, but he had a nasty coke habit. He would come work for us three years clean, go off the rails, then come back two years later, etc. My dad always welcomed him back, but it ended badly when Bill OD’d. These are the things you see growing up in a restaurant.